


Sorrow's Son - Blood

by Owlix



Series: Sorrow's Son [2]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Developing Relationship, Ghosts, M/M, Sadism, rejecting the series retcon, sadism because Ocelot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlix/pseuds/Owlix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s grin grows wider, and his remaining eye is warm. The rumble of his voice is a physical thing, this close.</p>
<p>“Ocelot,” John says. From him, it sounds like a term of affection and not a code name. “You’ve grown.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sorrow's Son - Blood

Adamska has heard somewhere that before a man could be truly accepted by others, he must first come to accept himself. He now believes that it is true.

After spending so much time around Volgin, it is hard for Adamska to see himself as a deviant. Compared to that man’s endless depravity, his own unique tendencies seemed mild and understated.

Once, he and Volgin had drank together. That night, Adamska admitted to Volgin that he, too, was interested in men - a ploy to help earn Volgin’s trust, back before he’d realized how easy it would all be. Adamska remembers Volgin’s little quirk of a smile, the man’s big hand on his shoulder.

“Ocelot, I’m glad to hear you say that.” And Volgin shook his head and grinned. “But you’re too young to limit yourself that way. Keep an open mind. A man has to work out what’s right for himself on his own.”

Volgin had never made a pass at him. A relief - Adamska had no interest in a man like that. He’d found out later that the reason wasn’t just a mutual lack of interest. Volgin seemed to have no limits with women, but with men, he and Raikov were exclusive.

It had bothered Adamska at the time. Gone against everything he thought he understood about love. But he feels like he is starting to understand it now.

 

They are to meet in the brick building by the cliffs. Adamska wonders if John chose it for sentimental reasons - they had first met here, years ago, in a fist-fight that left Adamska unconscious and concussed and hopelessly infatuated - but dismisses the possibility. John is not a sentimental man.

Adamska arrives first - typical. He ducks inside what’s left of the building and shuts the door behind him, in an attempt to get out of the sun. Keeps his back to the brick wall and spins his guns, listens for John, and waits.

The place is thick with death. Adamska ignores it as best he can. The ghosts are quiet and cold - sleepy, after so long with only other dead men for company. It will take them a long time to wake. He can feel them anyway, prickling on the edges of his awareness as they stir - men he’s killed, and men he’s known.

Ridiculously, John knocks.

Adamska is so startled, he nearly drops one of his guns. He catches it and holsters it. Another knock. Adamska doesn’t answer. He steps silently to one side of the door, walking so softly that his spurs don’t even jingle, and waits.

The door creaks open, and Adamska is hidden on John’s blind side, behind it. John steps in, prepared for violence as always, and then Adamska is on him.

They go down together on the earth floor. Adamska has been waiting for this for too long. He has been practicing since they last met, and he is a fast learner.

The violence is refreshing and as brilliant-sharp as he remembers it - a wonderful shift from the constant lies Admaska lives in. Here, now, he is himself, sincere and unhidden. That is what John gives him - a truth that tastes like blood. They tumble across the floor, making no noise but faint exhallations of breath, and hit the brick wall together. They exchange blows, locked in a hold that feels like an embrace, and John is grinning, but then Adamska has taken his pistol.

John’s grin grows wider, and his remaining eye is warm. The rumble of his voice is a physical thing, this close.

“Ocelot,” John says. From him, it sounds like a term of affection and not a code name. “You’ve grown.”

Adamska tries not to let his pleasure show on his face at the words. Probably, he fails. His sincere earnestness has always been his greatest strength as a spy; the best lies are always mostly true, and that is how Adamska builds his. But there is nothing of a lie in this.

“I have,” Adamska says. And it is true. He has taken men apart with batteries and with blades and with plyers. He wants to take John apart, with a desire unasked-for and undeniable and dizzyingly intense. Wants to know John the way he can only know a man after seeing how and where he breaks.

He pushes the muzzle of John’s American pisol up against the hollow of his throat. John’s eyebrows twitch - he isn’t having fun any more. Adamska switches the gun to his left hand, and draws his knife in one quick practiced movement with his right. Touches the cold flat of the blade against John’s cheek. John doesn’t flinch.

“I could take the other one,” Adamska says. “I could do it properly, this time.”  

It takes John a brief moment to figure out what he means, and then he stiffens.

“You wouldn’t,” John says, through clenched teeth, and there is just enough doubt in his voice to make Adamska’s knees weak.

Adamska thinks that he agrees with John - thinks that he wouldn’t. But he feels the same doubt that John feels. He is young, still, and unsure of his limits. He slips the blade of the knife under the black strap of John’s eyepatch, by his forehead, and tugs. The strap cuts easily. The patch falls away. John grunts in irritation - he isn’t afraid yet, of course. It would take a lot more than this. His remaining blue eye narrows. He is waiting for his moment.

Adamska could take John’s other eye, but he doesn’t. He puts his knife back in his sheath. John’s body relaxes under him, but only slightly. Adamska leans in to kiss him.

John tastes like Adamska had imagined - like cigar smoke and gunpowder, like a wild beast. His beard is rough against Adamska’s bare skin.

John responds, parting his lips, and Adamska is abruptly, foolishly, irrestrainably eager. He rushes, and John’s laughter rumbles, a low vibration against Adamska’s skin. John tries to slow things down. For a moment, Adamska lets him set the pace for both of them.

John is a patient man. He kisses the way he works - slow and subtle, a gradual shift of positioning that leaves Adamska at an increasing disadvantage, each movement effient and full of purpose. All with the promise of something forceful and worthwhile at the end, if Adamska will go along with it. But Adamska is not a man who is easily led.

Adamska catches John’s lower lip between his teeth and bites it hard. John’s laughter shifts to a growl, and now there is a taste of blood intermingled, and that is better, and Volgin was right about one thing, at least - a man has to work out what’s right for himself on his own, and Adamska is working it out here, now, one piece at a time.

John tries to pull away. Adamska holds on, flesh tearing between his teeth, and then somehow the pistol has been wrenched from his hands. John hits him hard enough that he gasps and throws him to the floor.

Adamska sits up as soon as he is able. John sits up too, holding his pistol and watching him with his one unruined eye. His eyepatch has fallen somewhere in the dirt. There is blood smeared on his lower lip and flecked in his beard. It suits him.

John wipes his face with the back of his left hand, sucks on his bloody swolen lip, and swallows.

“So,” John says. “That’s how you like it. I probably should’ve guessed.”

John knows him better than anyone else - he has no right to be surprised.

“Too much for you?” Adamska asks. He half-wants to be too much for John - the idea of it is dizzying - but more than that, he doesn’t want this to stop.

But John just laughs - that rough, smug, familiar chuckle - and Adamska realizes, half-disappointed and half-relieved, that it is nowhere near.

“We don’t have time for this,” John says. “Later. First, we do what we came for.”

His ghost hunt, he means; the two of them have come here for different things. John retrieves his eyepatch from the ground, shoves it into one of his pockets, and stands. He offers Adamska a hand, this time. Adamska hesitates, pride fighting with the desire to feel John’s hand against his. Desire wins. John pulls him easily to his feet.

Adamska keeps hold of John's hand for one long moment. “Later,” he repeats, holding John’s gaze. Making it a promise.

John grins at him and turns to leave. Adamska follows him into the jungle.

 

They walk together through the underbrush. John wordlessly takes point, leaving Adamska watching his exposed back. John's trust in him is baffling. Adamska has done nothing to earn it, and John is not a trusting man, but there it is anyway, brilliant and inexplicable and undeserved.

Adamska had long thought of himself as a man incapable of loyalty. He realizes that he had been wrong about that too. Adamska has loyalty in him after all - a seemingly endless supply. But he is only capable of giving it to one man - to him.

John walks steadily into the wilderness, not looking back. Adamska follows.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everybody who encouraged me to write a second part. I expect there to be a third part which will finish the series.


End file.
